A Crack in the Armor
by Xanthera
Summary: Silence, stoicism, and the occasional smile may seem like the strongest armor, but in the end, they're only as strong as the one who wears them. Set during the Black trailer. Rated T for implied sex.


I KNOW I SHOULD BE UPDATING MY ALADDIN CROSSOVER. DON'T REMIND ME. What can I say? My muse on that front has been lacking. Action scenes are hard, man. I needed some angst, and this happened. Like all good ideas, it came to me in the shower. Character introspection set during canon events is fun, especially in second-person.

* * *

"What about the crewmembers?"

"What _about_ them?"

He's been changing, and you can't stand it. You want to pretend that his answer is what spurs you to your decision to leave, but it simply isn't true. This has been a long time coming. Those words just give you an excuse.

Of course, you look for reasons to change your mind. When the Spider Droid attacks, you're too focused on Adam to get in a proper strike. Before you know it he's saved you again, and you want to think that it vindicates him, but you've grown out of such ideas. Maybe you would have believed your own lies when you were younger, but you know better now.

Yet not everything in him has been corrupted, and that almost makes it worse. He still bites his knuckle when he wants to keep from laughing, still fights with the grace of a dancer, still finds solace in the oddest of places, in the imperfections within perfection. His eyes are still drawn to bug-eaten leaves in otherwise flawless gardens, to cracks in straight sidewalks, to windows fogged with years of dust and trimmed with cobweb lace.

His kisses are still hot and fierce, as they always have been, his rare smiles are still disarming, and his eyes, when you do see them, still glint in a way that fills you with an unfettered desire, a desire that he's gladly indulged more times that you'd care to admit.

You can't think about those desires anymore, and especially not now.

His demand for you to buy him time is barked harshly, tinged with a rage that you've become accustomed to in the last few months, and it fuels your own anger. If your frenzied strikes on the droid do any damage, you're too occupied with your own thoughts to care. The droid bears the brunt of your pent-up frustrations, the months of sadness and fury and fear of rejection by the first person to show you any kindness, compassion, and what you might even dare to call love.

You remind yourself that it isn't really him anymore. Adam left a long time ago. There's a beast parading around in his skin, speaking with his voice, pretending to care for things other than itself.

A beast, yes. That's easier than thinking of the truth of his change. The truth that this is all him.

Or the truth that maybe Adam wasn't the only one who changed.

He laughs cruelly when he arms his most powerful Dust strike, taking too much joy in wanton destruction. Gone are his ideals of equality and peace, seeking revenge where before he sought justice. It hurts, seeing what he's become, but God forbid you should show it. Pain belongs under a mask, whether of indifference or of happiness. It never matters.

And so you force yourself to leave him behind, knowing he can hold his own against the droid. As expected, the screech of twisting metal assaults your ears from behind. Hurried footsteps on the roof of the train manage to echo over the roar of the wind and the engine.

You can't help it. You look back.

Stupid.

You stare at one another, and, to his credit, he doesn't follow you to the next car. He waits, and watches. You want to speak, to explain yourself, but your throat tightens. His eyes are covered and yet you know exactly what they look like because you know _him_. Under the mask, his brows are twisted with anger, his eyes filled with betrayal and confusion. Under the mask, he's your mentor and partner and friend and, yes, lover.

But his exposed mouth is set in the emotionless line of the beast.

You can't tell him why, but you have to do it, and you cannot - _will_ not – falter in your decision. But you aren't cruel enough to leave him with nothing, so you smile as you manage a quiet, "Goodbye." You can't let that smile go. It would leave you weak enough to change your mind.

So you cut the cable before you have that chance.

You still gaze at him as the train pulls you away faster than his car can keep up. It might be called eye-contact if you could see his eyes, and you thank every god there might be that you can't. The smile that shields you might break under his stare.

It's unclear how long you stand smiling, unmoving. Even after Adam is no more than a speck in the distance, you don't move. You can't. You refuse. Not until the train rounds a bend, and you know that he can't see you, so you allow yourself to fall to your knees and break.

No crying, though. Crying would be weak.

You're weak enough already.


End file.
